


That Monstrous Shadow

by Ellenar_Ride



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Injury, Dead Hand, Downfall Timeline (Legend of Zelda), Gen, Giant Spiders, Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride
Summary: While Impa is in the Shadow Temple, Zelda is supposed to be safe in Kakariko Village. But the dry well in the square is whispering a summons, and Sheik fears if anyone goes down they won't come back up. When he ventures down to silence the well, however, he begins to realize that the shadows beneath the earth hide secrets that hit close to home.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	That Monstrous Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [St0rmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/St0rmy/gifts).



Impa has been gone for sixteen days. Sheik has existed for twelve days. The dry well has been whispering for nine days.

Sheik has been watching the dry well, trying to ignore the whispers, for nine days. They follow him through the village, no matter where he goes or what he does, hissing indistinctly in his head like serpents. They get clearer every day. By the fifth day, they began to form words. Now, even though they remain slurred and indistinct, he can understand what they’re saying.

 _Come down, come in, come see,_ the well whispers in the back of his mind. _Come down, come here, come to me. Don’t you want to know what secrets I hold?_

He needs to wait for Impa. She’ll know what to do.

Before she left, she’d demanded a promise: _stay safe, child. Do not, for any reason, put yourself in danger while I am not here to protect you._ Before now, he’d thought nothing of it—why would he ever need or want to put himself in danger? And if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that venturing down into an ominously-whispering well counts as putting himself in danger.

_Come down, come look, come find me._

He grits his teeth and glares at the mouth of the well, willing it silent, though he knows the effort is in vain.

He needs to wait for Impa. He _will_ wait for Impa, because she _will_ be back. He doesn’t let himself doubt that for a moment. If he does, he’ll fall to pieces. He needs Impa like he’s never needed anyone else.) But every time he hears the well whisper, it’s a little louder. A little more insistent.

 _Come down, come down,_ **_come down._ **

“Sheik!”

He startles violently and tumbles into the dirt. Juna laughs, but pulls him to his feet and helps him dust himself off.

“Why do you keep glaring at this old thing? I promise it won’t eat you, Little Shadow,” she says, and ruffles his hair. But her voice shakes, just a little, and her hand trembles as she touches him, and she makes a distinct effort to not look at the well.

The chill in his chest has nothing to do with the temperature of the air. He meets her gaze and says, “you can hear it, can’t you.”

It’s not a question.

Her smile freezes, her face pales. She puts an arm around his shoulders and draws him away from the well. “Come on, come on, didn’t you promise to help me catch some skulltulas for my birds? It’s impolite to go back on your word, you know.” Her fingertips are blunt points of near-pain on his upper arm.

He won’t be deterred. “Juna? When did you hear it, the first time?”

“Only today, Little Shadow.” Her smile is broken glass, stained with stories whispered in the dark of night. “Now don’t fret! Skulltulas can smell fear.”

She’s trying to change the subject.

The fear in her eyes is sharp enough he lets her. “They’re _spiders,”_ he says, going along with her new topic, “can they even smell at all?”

She laughs, and it’s almost genuine. He’s willing to consider that a victory.

“Of course they can!” She leans down to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “Through their legs, you know.”

He laughs like he’s shocked and ducks out of her hold, pushing at her side. “Stop being weird! Why do you even _know_ that?”

He can’t wait for Impa. He promised, but he _cannot_ wait for Impa. Not when that thing has started whispering to the closest Sheik has to a friend.

He whiles the day away with Juna, trading cheerful jokes and jabs as they catch little skulltulas and take care of the murder-birds she calls her pets. But that night, under cover of darkness, when everyone is asleep and everything is still, when eyes are closed and good children are in bed, he takes action. He takes his dagger _(a final defense if for whatever reason I cannot protect you myself)_ and his pouch of deku nuts _(the best defense is to not be present, child—if you are faced with a threat,_ **_run)_ ** and his harp _(there is a power in music—a power to heal, and a power to hurt; I pray you never have need of the latter)_ and he creeps across the village.

He stands at the mouth of the dry well, staring down into the darkness, and listens to the whispers that swirl around in his head like fog: _come down, come down, you’re so close, come down and see._ He whispers back, _you leave her alone._

Sheik has existed for twelve days. This means two things:

One, he’s still figuring out exactly who he is. He doesn’t know much, but he knows he is not a good child, even if Juna tries to convince him otherwise.

Two, he never promised to stay out of danger. Zelda did, and Sheik isn’t Zelda.

He clutches these two truths as tight as his dagger and climbs down into the well.

His muscles burn by the time he makes it down to the base of the well. He needs to work on his arm strength—he makes a mental note to ask Impa for help when she gets back. It’s mostly so he has something to think about besides his surroundings; this place is already unsettling, dark and damp and cold and claustrophobic. Something drips in the distance, a steady _plink-plink-plink._

He hates it already.

The “room” he finds himself in is small and oddly square for the base of a round well, with a tiny tunnel carved into the base of the wall opposite the ladder. The whispers get more energetic with each step toward it, and when he stops just in front of it they’re practically screaming, despite being no louder than before. What they _are_ is faster. Livelier. More cheerful, somehow. And out of sync—it’s always sounded like a thousand voices speaking at once, but now they’re mismatched, staggered and overlapping.

A sharp chill seeps out from the tunnel. Not a breeze, the air is still, but like whatever is on the other side is so cold it affects the temperature even all the way out here.

 _Come in—through—down—over—so close, almost—little further—here—can fit through—_ **_come to me._ **

That’s right, he came down here for a reason.

His back scrapes on the rough-hewn roof of the tunnel as he crawls through. When he pulls himself out the other side and gets back to his feet, the whispers begin to settle from their frenzy.

He has a sinking feeling it’s because they don’t _need_ to call him anymore—he’s already here.

The platform he stands on is small, with what looks in the dim light to be a ladder leading down on the far side. The wood creaks and sways under his weight, each rickety step threatening to snap in half at any moment. Having solid ground underfoot again is a blessing, until he _lifts_ said foot again and realizes he’s standing in something sticky.

He tightens his grip on his dagger, takes a deep breath, and looks down. Sure enough, the ground is painted in dark off-red, the tacky not-quite-liquid pooling in the valleys of the uneven stones. Scattered throughout are bones— _big_ bones, too big to belong to most animals.

This is not a good place.

This is not a good place, and Sheik does not want to be here. He wants to turn around and flee, climb back to the surface and let sunlight chase away the deathly chill that clings to his bones already. How long has he been down here? It feels like only minutes have passed, but he could have been crawling through that tunnel for eternity, for all he knows. The whispers are still as loud as they were up above; he needs to find out what is whispering and silence it.

This is not a good place. But Sheik is not a good child, so he fits right in.

The dark is so deep and heavy it’s like a solid weight—pressing down on his shoulders, curling around his arms, stroking his hair, swirling around his calves with every sticky step. The whispers that force their way into his mind are calmer now, but not quieter, and they make it difficult to hear anything from his surroundings.

It takes a _tremendous_ effort of will to turn his attention to the sounds that reach his ears instead of the sounds playing in his mind.

Somewhere, something is still dripping. His breath, short and shallow, is gratingly loud. Every step is accompanied by a sound like tearing as he pulls his feet free once again. Something skitters and clacks on the ceiling—a skulltula, and a big one by the sound of it. He hops back, but after a long moment of waiting it hasn’t moved.

He takes a cautious step forward, then another three in quick succession, and he’s past it now, the source of the sound is behind him. It just… let him pass?

 _Nothing here will hurt you,_ the whispers croon, more coherent than ever.

He swallows hard and keeps walking, but soon finds himself at a dead end. And—

That is a full Hylian skeleton propped up in the corner.

Even sitting, it’s taller than he is.

 _Safe,_ the whispers say. _Come to me._

“How?” he asks. His voice echoes uncomfortably off the stone, far too loud for this quiet place. “There’s a wall in the way. I can’t go any farther.”

_Have faith._

“Right,” he says, quieter now, mostly to himself. “‘Have faith’. I think the Golden Goddesses disowned this place a while ago—”

Still, he approaches the dead-end wall and reaches out to search for any loose stones that might be hiding some sort of trigger mechanism. He thinks his effort to stifle his startled yelp when his hand sinks _through_ the wall instead is admirable, if unsuccessful.

Despite what his eyes are telling him, there is no wall before him. He draws back until he can see his hand again and casts a wary glance at the long walls that shape the corridor—who knows how many hidden gaps there could be among the stones? What secrets might they conceal?

_Come to me, Sheikah Boy._

He shakes his head and turns back to the “dead end”. It feels wrong to approach what every sense tells him is a solid stone wall with every intention of walking through it, but he carries on.

He feels absolutely nothing as he passes through the illusory wall, save for the air getting even colder as he walks deeper into the well. The room he steps out into is dim—so dim he can’t even see the walls. The floor is swallowed up by the dark only four or five feet in. Still, he makes his way forward with cautious steps.

 _Mind the water, Sheikah Boy,_ the whispers say.

He's still pondering what they mean when his next step meets not the floor, but a deep, icy pool. He stumbles, losing his balance, and lands hard on the stone.

Ah. Mind the water.

He gets the impression the whispers are very politely refraining from laughing as he gets back to his feet. They feed him instructions one literal step at a time, guiding him through another doorway and into a medium-sized room. He can specify its size because, unlike everywhere else in this well, it’s lit bright enough he can actually see.

The cells are concerning, and the cross in the center is alarming, but overall… it’s not that bad. He can even see how it could be almost homey, given time and effort. Honestly, the worst part about it is the _smell._

It smells _wet._ Damp and musty and earthy, so thick it’s almost a solid presence in his lungs. The stagnant air makes his chest burn, and every few seconds a powerful urge to cough seizes him. And beneath it all, sharp enough to make him gag, there’s something sour.

He puts it out of mind and sits on the cleanest part of the floor he can see. “Why did you call me down here?”

A breeze with no source brushes over his shoulders. _I wanted to talk to my Sheikah Boy. It has been_ **_decades_ ** _since someone so interesting walked the surface near my mouth._

“And you couldn’t talk while I was in the village? I remember a _lot_ of whispering before I came down.”

 _Disjointed. Broken. Scattered. I could not speak_ **_properly_ ** _with such distance between us._

Sheik sighs, tucking a lock of hair that had slipped loose back behind his ear. “Alright, say I believe you. Why did you scare Juna, if you only wanted to talk to me?”

Something in that sourceless breeze shifts, and the voice seems almost sheepish, now. Almost embarrassed. _You did not answer me. I… wanted to give you a reason to come and speak to me._

That’s… really? “Why in the name of the Three would you want to speak to me so badly? What could be so interesting about _me?”_

The force of the breeze picks up, tugging at his hair with ghostly hands, pressing against his scarf, curling over his shoulders. _You are_ **_fascinating,_ ** _Sheikah Boy! A mind that made itself? That is a rare thing. And even were you of a more common bent, still you would call to me. Your history is here, boy; all the greatest secrets of your past call this place home._

He sighs again. It’s heavier this time, laced with frustration and disappointment. “You _do_ know I’m not actually a Sheikah, right?”

The well laughs, and Sheik feels the vibration in the stones beneath him. _Nonsense! You are not Zelda, but the kingdom of Hyrule has no prince—only a princess. You are not her, so you cannot be royal. You are a Sheikah in name, in heritage, in all but blood._

There’s a warmth in his chest, despite the chill in the air, and he smiles. He leans against the wall behind his back and closes his eyes.

_Oh, that’s right, you flesh-bound ones need to rest, don’t you. Rest as you like, Sheikah Boy, and I will keep watch over you._

When Sheik wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is. Not at first. It’s not until a whispery _welcome back_ echoes in his head that he realizes he’s still in the well.

“Good morning,” he says around a yawn, stretching and standing up. “How long did I sleep?”

 _I do not count time as you flesh-bound ones do,_ the well says, almost apologetically.

Sheik waves it away with a dismissive hum. It doesn’t really matter—he’s just an incredibly curious person. And speaking of curiosity—

“Hey, where do those other halls lead?”

_They form a square, with doors that lead back here. There is nothing particularly interesting in them, but you are welcome to explore them if you wish._

He gets up and walks to the doorway he’d come in through, peering out into the darkness. “Any chance of getting some light?”

The well laughs, and faint hints of green light appear at what must be a corner. _Try not to get too close, Sheikah Boy—I doubt you are as fireproof as I._

Sheik doesn’t reply, staring at the largest Bubble he’s ever seen as it comes around the corner trailing green flame. It must be at least twice his height. His hand strays to his dagger, but he forces himself not to draw it, instead taking a deep breath to re-center himself.

 _It will not hurt you,_ the well whispers. _It is part of me, as all here are. I will not hurt you. It is the only source of light I can offer—follow behind it, and it will light your path._

Despite the little voice in the back of his mind screaming that this is a _terrible_ idea, Sheik steps out into the hall, into the flickering green light, and follows behind the monster.

The well wasn’t kidding when it said there wasn’t much interesting out here.

“So,” Sheik begins, continuing the conversation as he walks, “what exactly makes me interesting? I know, ‘a mind that made itself is a rare thing’, but why is that _interesting_ to you?”

For a long minute, the well is silent.

_You are… like me._

The bubble keeps moving, but Sheik stops in his tracks. The hall slowly grows darker, but he pays it no mind.

_I have never encountered another mind like myself. You are a fascinating anomaly._

He smiles, though it’s hidden by his scarf and the growing darkness, but before he can respond his attention is caught instead by a soft golden glow. It’s… coming from his hand? Pulling back his glove, he sees the shape of the Triforce shining faintly on the back of his hand, Wisdom’s piece a hint brighter than the rest.

He takes a step back, and the glow dims ever so slightly. A step forward, and it regains its former shine. Another, and it glows a little brighter. So it’s going to be one of these games, is it?

He makes his way through the hall, following the glow from the Wisdom mark on his hand, until it brings him to a statue with water pouring from its mouth. Painted on the ground is an image of the Triforce. Something about that feels important, but he can’t place it.

_Oh yes, this place. Does it mean something to you, Sheikah Boy?_

“Maybe,” he says, still distracted. The image of the Triforce on the floor still tugs at something in his mind, but he can’t figure out what.

A thought rises to the top of the murky pool of confusion. _Doesn’t it have something to do with the lullaby?_ It can’t hurt to try, right? He grabs his harp and plucks a few practice notes.

_Sheikah Boy—_

He plays the lullaby, a little slow but with no mistakes. All at once, the spout of water from the statue shuts off, and the standing water below it drains away.

The sour smell grows stronger.

_Sheikah Boy, come back to the center room._

There was a pool of water in the front room, right? Maybe there’s something interesting at the bottom.

_Sheikah Boy!_

“Come on, I just want to explore,” he says, making his way back to the front. Sure enough, the pool is empty now. It’s too dark to see, so he tosses one of his deku nuts at the bottom. The flash lights up the room for a fragment of a moment, and he catches a brief glimpse of a tunnel at the bottom.

_Sheikah Boy, this is incredibly unwise. Return at once._

The stone is slippery underfoot as he drops into the empty pool, wet against his palms as he crawls through the tunnel. “What happened to ‘nothing in this place will hurt me’?”

 **_I_ ** _will not hurt you, but the thing at the end of this path is the least me of anything here._

He throws a second deku nut to get a look at his new surroundings. There’s a wall in front of him—a wall covered in a metal climbing grid. It’s harder to handle than a ladder, the thin beams digging into his hands as he climbs, but he pulls himself up over the edge onto a new platform. A third deku nut, and he sees a door. _Perfect._

“I think there’s just something you don’t want me to see,” he says, laughing a little. “You’ve had perfect control of everything else I’ve seen, am I really supposed to believe there’s something through here you _don’t_ have a grip on?”

There’s a familiar skittering sound, and a giant skulltula drops down in front of his face.

 _Sheikah Boy,_ **_stop—_ **

He ducks around it with the confidence of a child who knows there is no real threat to be found, aiming for the door.

As he pushes it open, he begins to realize that the well was serious. The sour smell grows impossibly worse, expanding from the doorway like a cloud. But his momentum carries him through anyway, and the door slams shut behind him. The _shing_ of iron is the most terrifying sound he’s heard since coming down into the well.

He feels for the door, and finds it barred.

Okay. He’s going to have to find another way out. He shouldn’t have come here, he should have listened, but it’s going to be okay. He’ll figure it out.

His resolve lasts for exactly one step before the _crunch_ of the uneven ground underfoot draws his gaze down to the floor. Or rather, the thick carpet of blood-stained Hylian bones that _covers_ the floor.

… he’d relaxed so much while talking to the well he’d actually forgotten the blood and bones in that first corridor. _How_ did he forget—

Now isn’t the time. Something stirs in response to the sound of his steps, more bones are pushed out of place, and Sheik freezes completely.

There’s something in here with him.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his pouch and retrieves a deku nut. This is the fourth—he has sixteen left. He throws it, but he’s not used to working with uneven surfaces like this, and it doesn’t have enough force to flash. He throws the next one at the wall, instead, and for half a second, the room is illuminated.

Half a second is too long.

So are the arms. Too long and too thin and too pale, long-fingered pointy-nailed hands topping arms with mottled skin stretched too tight over the bone, twice as long as he is tall. They sprout from beneath the bones like grotesque mockeries of plants, unattached to a larger entity. Just arms, four of them, in a rough square.

He takes a cautious step towards one of the arms, trying to ignore the crunching underfoot, and tosses a sixth deku nut.

The flash reveals that desiccated hand only inches from his face—the tip of one sharp nail opens a thin scratch on the side of his nose as he throws himself back, landing hard in the bones.

There is no warning before papery fingers close over his face. The second hand’s nails dig into the skin along his jaw, tearing through his scarf; its grip is stronger than any living thing has the right to be.

But it’s _not_ a living thing, is it?

His feet slide over the shifting bones as he scrabbles for purchase, trying to get any sort of leverage. Desperate to get away, he grabs the wrist with one hand and pulls as hard as he can. With the other, he clutches his dagger even tighter—he doesn’t dare use it, not so close to his face. The dry-skinned palm presses over his mouth and nose and he can barely breathe.

The ground moves. Bones, tossed in the air by the emergence of whatever just crawled out of the dirt, clatter as they land back on the pile. He can’t see it, but he can hear it. Something big, something slow. Something coming his way.

White-hot panic flares in his chest and he slashes at the arm with his dagger, just above the wrist. He finally manages to drag himself free, and resolves not to think about the icy liquid that dripped down onto his face and shoulder. His hands shake so badly it takes three tries to make a deku nut flash.

The thing that looms from the darkness looks almost like a Hylian face, if drawn by someone whose only exposure to Hylians was a single waterlogged corpse. Its eyes are either missing or set so deep as to be completely swallowed by shadow, its prominent nose a crooked, twisted mess. But what really draws his eye is its lipless mouth, working in an endless, restless cycle—and its yellowed teeth, browning in the gaps with something he doesn’t want to think about, each one several inches wide and almost as tall as his arm is broad.

The light fades and he loses sight of it, but he can still hear the bones cracking and snapping beneath its weight, the sour scent of rot and decay that has plagued his entire time in this well growing steadily stronger.

He backs away, this time minding where he’s stepping, but it keeps following. Eventually it will back him into a corner—or another of the hands.

So even though he hates the idea with everything he is, he stops and stands his ground, listening for its movement. When it gets close, he throws a deku nut (the tenth, he notes in the back of his mind, halfway out) and lashes out at the swollen body the flash reveals. A dagger is for stabbing, not slashing, but it might help.

It doesn’t. The thing’s flesh parts easily, the bloodless gash hanging open like a blubbery grin before the darkness swallows it again, but the thing itself doesn’t even pause. Its head comes down, its mouth opens in a gaping grin, and Sheik panics.

He stabs it in the face, and he doesn’t know exactly where his blade lands, only that it sinks in until his knuckles brush its clammy skin. The thing shrieks and draws back—he almost loses his hold on his dagger, but it pulls free at the last second—and prepares to strike again. Another deku nut lights the scene long enough for his next attack to land; this time his dagger hits the side of its crooked nose, skimming along the surface of its face and opening another bloodless wound, a mirror to the scratch its own hand had given him a minute prior.

It wails, turning its back and hiding its head, and retreats from him. He tries to catch up, following the sound of its passage, but a wave of dirt knocks him back as it disappears under the ground.

He sits on the bones for a minute, coughing and trying to catch his breath. He’s starting to see what the well meant by this thing being difficult to control. When his coughing dies down, all is silent. The only sound that remains is the brittle whisper-creak of the arms as they sway gently back and forth.

The arms.

That thing only surfaced when one of the arms caught him.

Oh no.

No no no no no, he’s made a mistake, he _has_ to have made a mistake, he’s not going to—to willingly walk up to one of those things and let it grab him again—

Except that’s exactly what he’s going to do, because the door is locked and he wants this thing _dead_ and it won’t come up from the ground unless he lets himself be caught.

Panic blooms in his chest like a flower and he rips it out, roots and all. _Breathe. Be still. Fear can sharpen a blade, anger may lend it force, but terror benefits nothing._ He takes a steadying breath and tosses another deku nut (eight left) to find the nearest arm.

He doesn’t dare waste another on the approach, so each unsteady step in its direction is an exercise in willpower. Every second is tense as he waits for that brittle-skinned hand to grab him again, knowing there will be no warning.

It’s almost a relief when it happens. At least there is no more waiting.

The second time isn’t as bad as the first. It’s worse, because he knows what to expect. He knows what’s coming. He knows the burn in his chest will only grow with each moment he’s denied air, he knows the scratches those nails leave behind will only sting worse as time passes, and he knows what will be waiting for him when he gets free.

He hears the thing surface again, hears it approach, and takes his dagger to the arm holding his face until it lets go. Whatever passes for its blood soaks through the shoulder of his shirt; it feels like ice against his skin.

He throws a deku nut (number thirteen) to try to light the room, but it bounces off of something soft without flashing. It—

He leaps to the side and hears those teeth snap together and grind over each other right where he used to be. The only soft thing in here is that thing’s body. Another deku nut hits the ground, and this one _does_ flash, giving him the chance to land another blow to the thing’s head. (He tries, and fails, not to look at the gaping, bloodless hole in its cheek from his last attack.)

His fifteenth deku nut lights the way for another blow, and true to its previous pattern, it howls and draws back, turning away and disappearing beneath the earth. This time he doesn’t bother to follow it.

He does _not_ want to do that again. How many times is he going to have to do this?! It doesn’t show any sign of injury, and it hasn’t managed to do more than scratch him yet but it only takes one mistake.

He takes a breath, shoves that thought out of mind, and fishes out another deku nut. He only has five left—he needs to be _careful_ with them, now. It flashes when it hits the floor, and now he only has four.

He approaches one of the arms again and lets the hand close over his face. It’s almost routine to cut himself free when he hears the thing approaching him. But it’s faster than he expected, this time, and he doesn’t have time to reach for a deku nut before he has to dodge out of the way.

Or rather, _try_ to dodge out of the way. He only gets a few inches away before he’s yanked to a painful halt.

There is a hand in his hair.

The hand caught his ponytail, about halfway down.

He cannot move, and that _thing_ is getting closer. He _needs_ free. So he brings his dagger up behind his own head, accidentally nicking his ear in his haste, and slashes at the base of his ponytail, trying to sever the tie that holds him in place.

At first, he thinks he’s cut himself free in time.

Then he throws another of his rapidly-dwindling supply of deku nuts (number seventeen, only three left) and sees its jaws, open wider than ever, too close to avoid. He thinks, for one hysterical moment, that his entire head could fit between those jaws.

He’s lucky that it goes for his shoulder instead—for a given value of luck.

He will never forget a single facet of the experience. The whole exchange occurs in the span of a second, if not less, but for Sheik it plays out in slow, horrified motion as dread builds and he is unable to escape.

Its breath washes over his arm first, too cold to belong to a living creature on its own but even icier as it passes over the chilled not-blood from the arms. It smells even more disgusting up close, its rotten scent so thick he actually can’t breathe. Then its teeth touch, scraping over his arm for one fragmented moment, tearing his shirt and leaving behind shallow scratches. Its teeth are as blunt as his own, and have not yet properly broken skin.

That isn’t necessarily a good thing.

Its jaws clamp shut with enough force to drive blunt teeth through muscle in a curving arc from his shoulder to his elbow. He doesn’t just _feel_ those teeth hit bone—he _hears_ it, too. That _crack_ will echo in his dreams for years to come, assuming he survives that long. The wet sound of his own tearing flesh, somewhere between a rip and a squelch, will follow close behind.

The thing’s jaws begin to loosen as it withdraws, preparing to strike again, but before its teeth are free of his arm he raises his dagger and buries the entire blade in the thing’s right eye socket.

It wails and shrieks, jerking its head back. His dagger goes with it as he loses his grip.

That’s when the pain catches up with him. He crumples, his knees giving out, and lands hard in the pile of bones. The jarring fall jostles his arm, and the only reason he doesn’t scream is because there is no air left in his lungs.

He should—he needs—it’s not _safe,_ that thing is still here—but he can’t move. He can’t un-lock his muscles, can’t force his knees to bend, can’t move the hand that hovers over his ruined shoulder even an inch.

The single scrap of good luck he’s experienced since stepping into this room comes in the form of the bars on the door sliding up as the wailing creature disappears into the ground. The arms follow suit, vanishing back beneath the bones.

It’s cold.

He remembers the well being cold before, but not like this. His heart races out of control, his breath spirals into shallow gasps, and he tells himself in no uncertain terms to get a grip.

It doesn’t work.

He tosses one of his last three deku nuts to light his search for his dagger—he’s not about to leave a gift from Impa down here. It’s easy enough to find, as the only reflective surface in the room, though it’s mostly covered in something thick and dark he doesn’t really want to touch.

What catches his attention more is the hair.

He stares down at the scattered locks of hair on the ground long after the flash fades away and the darkness hides everything again, the image of blond strands lying in sharp contrast to the red-brown mess of bloody bones burned into his mind.

He’d actually liked his hair. Knowing that he’s actually cut it… stings. It’s probably for the best, he tells himself—even lightened, it looked so much like Zelda’s hair. He’ll be harder to recognize this way.

It still hurts.

His head is spinning, and he needs _something_ but he doesn’t know what. His shoulder throbs—it’s the only part of him that doesn’t feel too cold, because it feels like it’s burning instead.

What was he doing? He was… he was fighting that _thing—_ he staggers back and stumbles over a bone, loses his balance, and falls. The fire in his shoulder flares.

It’s dead, he has to believe it is. It’s dead, it’s dead, it’s _dead_ but he can’t _calm down._

He wants Impa.

Tears sting his eyes and he lets them fall. Zelda might have to be a Good Girl and maintain her composure, but Sheik isn’t Zelda and Sheik is already Bad and Sheik is allowed to cry. So he sits in the blood and the bones and the pooling icy ichor and cries until he cannot breathe, until he starts coughing instead because his lungs can’t keep up.

He wants Impa, but she’s not here.

He’s starting to fear she’s never coming back.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he drags himself to his feet and stumbles out the open door. The well is utterly silent as he backtracks through the tunnels and rooms to the base of the main room—no whispers, no movement, no skittering skulltulas on the ceiling.

He doesn’t know how he manages to climb back out of the well, only that it _hurts_ and that it is _slow._ But eventually he does manage to pull himself up out of the well.

“Did you just… Sheik, did you just come out of the well? What were you _doing_ down there?”

The voice is friendly, concerned, familiar. _Juna._ He turns, tears already threatening to well up again, but when he sees her he can only stop and stare, struck silent.

Her skin is three shades paler than yesterday, a mix of gray and purple undertones that don’t belong on anything still living. Her blue eyes are dull, holding a spark of intelligence but no light of life. Her ears twitch, but not in any way that reflects her mood. As she speaks, the lines of her face are the sharp creases in a piece of paper folded and unfolded and refolded a dozen times over.

Those eyes widen, and her horrified cry sounds like funeral bells. “Sheik, your _arm!_ Oh no, we need to get you help—”

He doesn’t respond, just staring at her hair. Her long, straight hair, in a color that wouldn't look out of place down in the well, staining skin and bones, dripping from a dagger’s blade.

She takes a step toward him and he stumbles back without hesitation, crouching on top of the wall just to keep his distance. He is painfully aware of his chopped-short hair and the reason why.

“Sheik?” she asks, reaching out to him.

Her arms are too long and her fingers are too thin and _too long, too long toolong_ and he ducks around to the other side of the well. She stops, shadows creeping over her face and hiding her eyes, one arm extended and the other clutched to her chest. Her long skirt stirs in a breeze that doesn’t exist. He looks around as fast as he can, checking every direction, waiting for those hands to appear again.

The motion is too much when he’s already dizzy and light-headed. He sways in place, almost losing his balance before he can brace himself against the post.

“Sheik, be careful!”

He leans back as she takes a half-step forward, his bloody hands slipping over the surface of the wood. He _will not_ be grabbed again—

“Please come down from there, Little Shadow,” she says, and there are whispers woven into her voice, but she lowers her arm and takes a step back. “I’m scared you’re going to fall.”

Why is she stepping back? _Why is she stepping back, the monsters never back away—_ he leans forward to get a better look at her shadowed face, but his head is spinning and his hands slip again and he loses his balance.

_“Sheik!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all this is so late it's not even funny :(
> 
> Also it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but it grew on me, whoops. Chapter 2 should be up sometime in the next few days.
> 
> What can I say, I needed a spooky fic for Halloween. Dunno how much Spook is in this chapter, but, uh. Wait and see. (Yes, I did tag for Dead Hand, because as far as I'm concerned that thing has _earned_ a content warning.)
> 
> I think I covered everything, but as usual, if I missed anything y'all think should be tagged, let me know and I'll be happy to fix that. Also, expect new tags when the second chapter goes up.


End file.
